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I feel slimy after our visit.
All I want to do is talk to Angie about it. But I guess that's what my new therapist is for. Maybe Angie was right—I do lean on her too much for emotional support.
I arrive in Radnor an hour later than normal thanks to the World Series traffic, but everything is forgotten when I walk in the door and Joaquín runs at me, jumping in my arms.
“What are you doing here, baby brother?” I laugh.
“I wanted to surprise everyone,” he exclaims, then hops off me and adjusts his shirt. “Where’s—” he says, cutting himself off. I only told him and our moms about what happened last week. “Sorry. I forgot,” he says sheepishly.
“It’s okay. She said she’s coming home tomorrow so we’ll figure it out.”
“That’s good! I think,” he mutters, but gives me a raised eyebrow. “Just figuring it out?”
“I mean—”
“There you are,” Mamá beams as she walks into the foyer and gives me a quick hug. “My God, you’re skinny. Come, come. Food’s getting cold.”
When I reach the dining room with them, Mom walks into the room holding some napkins and I go in for another squeeze. “Hi, Mom.”
“Hi, sweetie,” she says. “Have a seat and tell us everything.”
Taking a napkin from her, I have a seat next to my brother and across from them and say grace. But instead of telling them about Angie right away, I say, “Papá visited me today.”
The room goes silent as everyone stops what they’re doing to stare at me.
“Are you serious?” Joaquín asks. “Why was he here?”
“The game,” I say with a flat tone and a shake to my head, then serve myself some carne asada.
“The game,” Mamá repeats slowly.
“He’s been to the East Coast once in the last twenty years,” Joaquín says with narrowed eyes. “And decides the reason for his next trip will be for baseball?”
“Unbelievable,” Mom adds under her breath.
“What did you talk about?” my brother asks as he serves himself.
“Nothing really,” I shrug. “His friends, job. His many girlfriends.” Mamá scoffs as she takes a bite. But something has me itching for answers to questions I’ve never had before. “Has he always been,” I start, and then debate if I even want to ask this. “Has he always been so crude?”
“Yes,” all three say at once.
“I didn’t see it for the first few years we were together,” Mamá says. “But, yes. I thought they were jokes at first, but the more he said them, the more I realized he meant them.”
All evening I’ve been trying to replay every interaction I’ve had with him over the years, trying to piece together the man I talked with today to the man I’ve always known.
“How have I never seen that side of him?” I ask.
“Because you’ve been putting him on a pedestal your whole life,” Joaquín mutters. “I’m younger than you, how can I see this and you can’t?”
“Have I?” I ask Mamá.
She nods knowingly. “I prayed every day for a long time that you would not end up like him, mijo. He did nothing wrong in your eyes. He was your idol. Do you have any idea how many times you came home from school with art or an essay about him? I was never going to let you see the ugly side on purpose. I never wanted to speak ill of him in front of you boys, but I hoped you would see the truth for yourself a long time ago.”
“I think the infrequency of your visits made you idolize him more,” Mom adds. “You held onto those precious moments with him like they were gold.”
All of a sudden I’m painfully aware of how alike my father and I are, and it’s like the rose-colored glasses are coming off. “Am I just like him?”
“No, Rafael. No,” Mamá soothes. “You are kind and thoughtful. You think about the comfort of others. You were raised in a better environment than he was.” When I don’t say anything, she continues. “Part of that was us. Part of that was Angie.”
